


Brocéliande

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Blasphemy, Brief anal sex, Canon ages, Character Study, Control Issues, Foot Fetish, God Complex, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Inexperience, Stream of Consciousness, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Fairy tales are supposed to end in a happy ending for the knight. Rather unfortunately, Leon finds himself at odds with the reality of the matter. Life, unlike fiction, certainly doesn't follow a pattern.
Relationships: Dande | Leon/Masaru | Victor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	Brocéliande

**Author's Note:**

> As a disclaimer, I'm not actually into feet stuff, so I'm not particularly adept at writing that. I just thought it'd be fun to tie into all the literary stuff and religious blasphemy. And NSFW, to me, tends to become "same-y" if one keeps to the "normal" stuff like anal and BJs all the time. Spice is the variety of life and all. You can only describe the physical descriptions in so many ways before it turns into purple prose or a much worse written Lolita. 
> 
> This work's also a bit intentionally "odd" style-wise with something that's almost "dreamlike" before verging back into reality. I'm not particularly fond of this fic, but I must add to the list of Leon/Victor fics. Never enough Victor in the fandom. And well, it's my "cooldown" fic. It's gonna be odd and a bit self-indulgent.
> 
> Though now you get to see what my "serious" Leon is. If Raihan gets "old man chaser" and Piers gets "immense sexual guilt," Leon gets a god complex with vague hints of narcissism. I just thought it'd be fun to do since he's called "unbeatable" an almost obnoxious amount of times in-game. Something's goin' on there. Also I thought it'd be fun to work with the idea of "Divine Right of Kings" since Galar's based on the Isles and Leon's team lends itself well to the idea of the court and the figures found there.
> 
> Hopefully if Sonia ever shows up in my works, she can measure up to everyone else's "oddness." Well, Raihan isn't that odd in comparison or at all really, but everyone else...

To be king is to be God.

That is how the story goes, how the stories _should_ go and end in his opinion—with the knight battered but triumphant and with the villain slain and soon forgotten. Perhaps there should be a girl—a village damsel, a simpering princess, or perhaps some veiled goddess—and some immeasurable treasure: gems swirling as a kaleidoscope, chalices shining and untouched by earthly hands, or even simple golds and silvers, coinage. He doesn’t really care on the specifics.

What matters to him is the knight himself, or perhaps the cavalier or even the vassal sent as an unwitting but ultimately victorious, sacrifice. The specifics of that particular detail don’t matter either.

It is not in the class, the designation, or even the name—the intrinsic marker of humanity—but in the journey, humanistic and deterministic and carved almost entirely by mortal footsteps, and in the ending, absolute and happy.

All fairy tales must end in a happy ending.

That is what he believes.

The names—they weren’t important.

From succinct names beginning with _A’s_ or maybe _C’s_ —he could go through the whole alphabet really, a personal little game of Hangman—to the more unpronounceable and foreign, he has collected and read every single one of their tales and stacked them upon his bookshelf.

He doesn’t organize them by last names like Sonia does to her books: a clash of biographies versus autobiographies, novellas verging on novels, and an assortment of styles and writings he doesn’t particularly care for—short and concise to the long-winding and verbose, flower fields planted and blooming upon the off-white pages.

It’s too simplistic, overly boring and lacking in flair. Moreover, it is unnecessary.

Names don’t matter after all.

But still, he doesn’t simply toss them onto his shelf either. That’s messy, and he doesn’t like messiness. Instead, he sorts them by color—deep scarlets next to wine burgundy and seeping to dull red, sky blues running into blue-blacks colored deep as a starless night and dripping; imposing, onto the pristine white beside them.

He doesn’t need to know their names. The stories must all end the same anyhow.

The names themselves don’t matter. They never matter, interchangeable as they are. Who cares if he forgets a detail as insignificant as that? If he calls some dead man by the wrong name? They certainly wouldn’t complain, decrepit and rotting or perhaps already turned to dust or wilting as the flowers on his windowsill—dying as the rest always have and browning petals fluttering downward like fowl feathers.

He doesn’t have a green thumb unfortunately. Unlike Sonia, he couldn’t quite keep his plants alive for more than a week, perhaps two at best.

But still, what matters is action—the journey, the ascension, and the reign.

To be king is to be God—to be absolute in rule and proclamation.

But still, he isn’t cruel. He understands responsibility, the rules set forth by God forgiving and caring.

He remembers the stories of his childhood, the fairy tales his mother had regaled him with—voice gentle and coaxing, hand-painted storybook held aloft in her soft palms, and he, still diminutive, upon her lap.

Swords drawn from the stone, half-beasts bearing and mocking humanity’s visage, and enemies near-beyond the pale of human understanding.

And facing them always is the knight—humankind embodied yet wholly not. He—it is almost always a man in these tales—stood above all else, everyone else.

No equal, nothing but dreams and realizations and just deserved destiny.

He knows the rules of the exchange. He has heard it on countless nights and lazy afternoons as a child and even after, on the days when his mother had read to his brother.

To be king is to be God is to be nameless—some half-memory erected in the name of peace and idealization.

To be is to be an idea, carved from the rockface of humanity.

“Lionhearted,” that is the translation of his name, or rather, it is an interpretation, one of many. It is close enough in his opinion.

He must be lionhearted, the pinnacle of ideals.

He must be.

To be king is to be God, righteous and true and all-controlling.

It is the right of kings, of gods—to command and to guide and to persevere.

Humans and kings and divine powers nameless.

These are the roles—the castes—that most couldn’t escape.

But still, all endings must end in happiness, in absolutes and—not—with what-ifs, no matter how small.

It itself—the happy ending—is the reward for the journey, for human diligence.

Those are the rules of the exchange, the law of the world and those above.

Thus so as the stories go— _should_ go once more as they have numerous times—he should still be king, admired and reigning.

Not that usurper, the rulebreaker and heathen—damned beast incarnate and coyly smiling.

He hadn’t broken any of the rules himself—nothing to damn himself as tyrant or as someone unworthy of the role of king, of god judging.

So—why? Why had he lost?

It’s not his team. They had been strong enough—he had made sure of it—and that usurper’s team hadn’t been much at a glance either, not inhumanely overpowering like the kings of other regions: the immaculate lady garbed in sunrise and born from snow, the man with eyes blazing gold and condemning as the sun, and a variety of others.

He, the usurper, isn’t much in terms of appearance either—no curling blond locks hiding horns and hair and eyes brown as mud. He hadn’t even been born under a sign like he himself had been—under the light of a falling star. According to his mother’s own words, Victor’s birth had been uneventful, no strange occurrences or anything.

But still, perhaps he should have expected it.

Victor had always gone against his expectations, against the grain as it were.

He certainly should have expected it when they boy had chosen a different starter than what he had anticipated. Victor is the quiet sort—that is what he knows from Hop’s description. He expects Sobble or even Scorbunny as his choice. They aren’t particularly quiet or relaxed Pokémon, but they lend themselves well to ambition.

They wouldn’t have a disadvantage against his Charizard. Hell, Inteleon would be able to outpace his Charizard on the ground well enough though not so much in aerial combat for obvious reasons.

That is what he expects.

Ambition itself is human, expected and welcomed. Gods always had to defend their post—their ideology and their being—and he doesn’t mind descending for some other human being.

That is the rite, how he himself ascended.

But Victor…he had defied it—the laws, the rules, the universal ideals.

He had chosen a Pokémon entirely weak to his ace. Certainly, it could have simply been childish adoration—a choice made from interest rather than practicality—but that hadn’t explained the sheer apathy he had displayed afterwards.

It isn’t a disinterest in Grookey or an inadequacy in battling—he had done well in that, better than well even—but in the way he stares at him, head tilted as if observing some insignificant bug or a piece of castoff lint. It’s an odd sort of look, one that didn’t quite fit on a child’s face.

It’s the same gaze he finds himself under whenever he finds himself against one of the other kings—simple disinterest. It’s not an emotion he particularly cares for.

He had brushed it off afterwards of course. It shouldn’t mean all too much if he isn’t a fan—he understands preferences—but still, it had nicked at him, poked and prodded and clawed at his thoughts until he banished them for another night.

It isn’t admiration he craves, but simple acknowledgement.

But perhaps he shouldn’t have, Victor had blazed through the circuit with the same intensity that he had over a decade prior. Though, he doesn’t think he himself had ever looked that disinterested.

It’s not entirely human in his opinion—that peculiar lack of ambition. It’s more akin to the monsters in his tales, beasts more interested in savagery and wild abandon, the upheaval of order, than in any true ending or catharsis.

And much like the beginning, Victor had defied every single one of expectations. He doesn’t struggle with any of the Gym Leaders—he overwhelms them really, almost akin to a tsunami or a second coming—nor does he struggle to adapt to the journey itself.

He hadn’t even flinched when faced with Eternatus.

There is no hero’s journey, no difficulty, nothing of that sort.

It’s pristine, sanitized, and overly uneventful.

But still, the clock had ticked downward, the tale— _Victor’s_ tale, not his own—to its end, and he had found himself face-to-face with the boy, the usurper. He finds himself underneath the same gaze—the same disinterest and the now-familiar tilt of the head. It’s overly disconcerting, but he hadn’t thought much of it. He refused to.

Moreover, he hadn’t seen horns or anything of that sort on the boy either. He couldn’t hide them under his hat—that poofy thing had been left behind in the locker room—and his hair, as curling as it is, isn’t long or thick enough to hide such a characteristic.

Victor isn’t special in any sense of the word, no physical characteristic to distinguish him from the rest.

But still, he had done his best to act as he should, confident and charismatic and willing to stand as king. He doesn’t expect Victor to dent his team all too much, but he does.

He does more than that even. During their first round, Dubwool, horns twisted like the gnarled roots of an elder tree and blue-white electricity coursing through its naturally shaggy coat, had slammed into his Aegislash with ease and blown him into one of the stadium’s walls.

King’s Shield hadn’t done all too much, not because he hadn’t issued the command, but merely because Victor had worked around it, predicted it with the same impartial gaze he always seems to carry.

When he had recalled his Aegislash, the silence had been deafening, terribly so. But still eventually, the stadium had erupted in an uproar—a mix of cheers and boos and akin to a chorus.

When he sends out his next Pokémon, Victor hadn’t frowned, hadn’t smiled, or done anything he would expect from a human then. Instead, he had merely tilted his head again, expression impassive.

It’s jarring even to him.

The rest of his Pokémon had fallen in much of the same manner—with the same ease, the same contradiction and defiance of storytelling and structure and heroism.

Even his predictions about Victor’s team hadn’t been correct in the slightest.

Toxtricity was supposed to be the Gigantamax. He has seen Victor’s matches. It’s the one he calls upon the most when it came to that specific ability. Furthermore, it’s the one that makes the most sense. It’s the one that would challenge his Charizard the most.

Instead, however, he had seen a pair of dark wings spread—caw shrill and heralding the end like some fanciful soothsayer—before Corviknight had dispersed in that familiar red light and reformed, looming and vengeful.

It’s inconceivable to him why Victor had chosen Corviknight as his Gigantamax for that match. There was no benefit to it. He hadn’t brought Mr. Rime this time, and none his other Pokémon had any particular difficulty with the species.

But still, it had come as an almost challenge of sorts, a bit mocking perhaps, but a challenge still.

That is how he had rationalized it.

He expects Charizard to claim victory—even just one over Corviknight would be better than their current 5-0 match—but his partner hadn’t. Instead, much like everything else about Victor, he had defied expectations, stomped on both rationality and fate with the same indifference as one would go about hanging up their laundry or about folding shirts.

It’s devilry really—monstrous and inhuman in its perfection.

It should be a happy ending—the old passing on the torch to the new—but it isn’t.

He only feels bitterness, akin to eating an early plucked and unripe fruit. There is a naturalness in the bitterness of in defeat, but no, it shouldn’t be—not for him anyway.

It hadn’t been divined in the stars, in the expectations he had set out and in the hours themselves.

It’s not how the fairy tale should go—with the monster victorious and the knight beaten.

For his own rules and his own ideals, that is what he has to consider him as, defiant and odd and inhuman as he is.

Even when he had lifted the boy’s hand and declares him king, Victor doesn’t smile, wide and beaming as other children would, or even continue the same indifference of before. He doesn’t follow expectations—neither the conventions of the story nor his.

Victor only quirks his lips slightly.

* * *

He ends up retreating to Rose Tower, or rather the Battle Tower as he renames it.

It’s not how the story should go—with the knight banished to the top of some tower. It should be the beast forced to retreat, to lick its wounds.

Instead, he finds he himself atop the tower—like one of the damsels or princesses that he never quite bothered to learn the names of. He never could quite remember their reasons either, tenuous and unimportant as they tended to be. What would the point be? The story has never been about them.

From the beginning to the end—no matter how much they loomed, no matter how much they fretted atop their ivory towers—those sorts of characters never mattered. They’re half-phantoms, damned to nothing more than an anecdotal footnote in the side of some grand tale—some grand story and some other individual’s destiny.

There is no real reason to remember them, he thinks. They’re simply a means to an end, something meant to motivate or to act as a reward. The dragon, at the very least, has a role and a purpose beyond a trophy, beyond some token souvenir for victory.

But nonetheless, he’s here now, atop this tower like some princess or dragon or something in that vein.

It’s not how the ending should go.

He doesn’t expect Victor to come—he doesn’t seem all too inclined to fame or to battling despite his propensity for it—but he does. And much like before, despite all common sense, he blazes through the tower without so much as a hint of difficulty.

It’s discomforting really. He had handpicked everyone—chosen them from among Galar’s best—but still, Victor defies all rationality, all reason and every structure.

He’s messy, incredibly so—like rain upon a freshly painted house.

But, at the very least, he had the courtesy to take his Zamazenta with him into battle. He could understand the practicality of that.

He ends up facing him again and again as he ascends the tower, some bastardization of the knight-errant and the beast.

And much like before, he loses again and again, a repetition of noise and action and messiness.

He’s not particularly fond of it, especially when faced with the beast—he couldn’t be described as anything else really, not without farcical fabrication—during their final bout, during the final roadblock before he conquers the Tower.

And underneath the starless night—an omen beyond all else—he fails once more.

It’s discomforting, overly messy and going against routine.

But at the very least, he could take solace in the fact that Victor would lose interest in the place. From what he hears from Hop, Victor’s not particularly inclined towards continuing once he achieves his intended goal—loses interest as it were.

Though, much like before, he’s wrong once more.

Victor ends up frequenting the Tower, some monstrosity lurking in the lower depths and ascending.

It’s a bastardization, a farce, of how the story should go—knight confined and beast free and running amok rather than vice versa.

But still, they continue as always, knight-errant and dragon absconding.

* * *

It’s not about Battle Points he thinks, or he assumes so anyway. He’s had his receptionist check Victor’s card, and his total is somewhere in the thousands currently with not even a single point spent. It couldn’t be about the challenge either. He almost never has trouble tearing apart the teams that come before him—impartial judgement and equally impartial smiting.

He almost seems bored going through the motions really—or perhaps he’s once again assigning some human ideal to something that has none, overly rationalizing.

But still, Victor comes back again and again. He couldn’t say he wasn’t curious of the reason, but like with the seasons or the turning of a page, the visits eventually shift, changing.

He finds the boy visiting his private office during the off-hours, the moments when he doesn’t have a challenger. He doesn’t really remember when the visits shift, changing as the tides under moonlight.

But it does, and now, more often than not, he finds Victor sitting in one of the spare chairs in front of his desk, legs swinging and hands grasped around his phone or perhaps a drink or candy bar he had bought from the vending machine outside.

It’s an almost-childish sort of act if not for the fact that Victor rarely speaks—no curious questions about his work, no awe or even annoyance, nothing. He only continues in that odd way of his—quiet, diffident, yet entirely unruly—and hands occupied with something or another.

He couldn’t say he wasn’t curious about his mannerisms, but still, he doesn’t ask.

He only ends up stocking the fridge, the personal one he keeps in the corner, with a small assortment of snacks—chocolates, juices, and fruits. They’re all things his brother likes, but he assumes Victor is much the same.

Whatever his personal inclinations, Victor doesn’t complain, and he finds himself refilling the contents from time to time.

It’s an odd sort of routine, one that he eventually gets used until Victor breaks it once more.

It’s not a particularly special day when Victor breaks it. It’s average, not overly hot or overly cold, and it isn’t even a holiday or close to one. It is an average day in all respects really.

But still, Victor does so anyway.

Lifting his gaze from his phone, Victor speaks, head tilted in that same strange yet familiar mannerism.

“I like you.”

* * *

Despite the gravity of his words, Victor doesn’t act all too different on the days afterward. He still enters his office with all the grace—the petulant silence—of a feline before taking his spot upon his chair with a drink or snack in hand.

Though perhaps, he shouldn’t have expected anything else of him. After he had spoken, Victor had promptly turned back to his phone.

It’s aggravating really, not befit of how a king should act. Declarations such as his should hold some weight, he thinks. They shouldn’t be treated as akin to commentary upon the weather or perhaps a haircut—menial and unimportant and overly mild.

Thus perhaps, that is why he finds himself standing one day, leaving his chair before moving to stand in front of a still-sitting Victor. He feels a tinge of annoyance when Victor doesn’t even turn to face him. Instead, he only continues to tap his fingers against the screen of his phone. An open can of soda sits pressed between his thighs and upon the chair.

Messy. He’s entirely too messy.

It’s not particularly moral of him all things considering, but he finds himself placing a hand upon Victor’s face—thumb just underneath the bottom lip—before tilting his chin upward. He leans downward and kisses him, and hears the clatter of a phone slipping and hitting the floor.

Good. He’s not particularly fond of messiness, and it isn’t like the phone would shatter. Victor has a case on it.

Victor’s lips are chapped, overly dry and cracked, but at the very least, he doesn’t resist. Instead, Victor parts his lips at the first chance, and he feels the slight exhale of breath from Victor’s nose and upon his skin.

To his delight, the kiss is awkward, entirely inexperienced on Victor’s part—teeth bumping and clumsy and overly wet from excess saliva. It’s human, less than monstrous and less than divine—an in-between. But still, it’s better this way. He wouldn’t have been able to stand it if Victor had been good at this particular act as well.

Another clatter as Victor presses upward and into the kiss, and he feels a wetness upon his pants, a consequence of the tipped can. He ignores it; it’s something he could clean up later, hold off on unlike his current preoccupation.

Eventually, they part, Victor panting slightly, and he feels a certain thrill at his state. Unlike his normal calm and indifference, his cheeks are flushed, rosy burnt by the sun, and there’s a tremble in his body, a shiver akin to a leaf in summertime.

Victor’s response is wholly human, not overly beastlike and calculated, so perhaps, he couldn’t be blamed for his thoughts, his wants, and his actions afterwards.

It’s entirely human to want to drag a king—a god—back to and beneath humanity.

* * *

Victor’s legs are pristine, pale white and lacking in any nicks or scarring. That is the first thing he, liquid seeping into fabric and kneeling, notices as he holds one of Victor’s feet—the left rather than right—in his hand. They’re slender, naturally small and thin even with consideration for his age with well-shaped toes—neither excessively large nor disproportionately small—connecting to a fair-fleshed frame, anklebones jutting outward ever so slightly.

The nails themselves, ten white crescents each growing from healthy pink, aren’t much to speak of either. Rather, they’re merely trimmed, plain—undamaged yet not particularly cared for, not professionally manicured or painted—with none missing.

All and all, they’re more akin to girl’s feet than a boy’s.

This particular matter, the daintiness of his feet, isn’t particularly helped by the softness of the pads—oddly still tender despite months of travel—or by the size of his own hand, naturally large and calloused. Held as it is upon his palm, Victor’s foot seems smaller, slimmer than it actually is; more akin to a lonesome flower freshly budding from dirt than a human appendage.

Looking upward, he notices the expectant gaze in Victor’s eyes, tinged with curiosity. He hadn’t objected to the idea of stripping, pulling down his pants and tossing them onto the desk, but he hadn’t been particularly eager either.

He’s not particularly fond of that really, but it, at the very least, is better than near-apathy. He doesn’t want to return to that sort of gaze, not from Victor anyway.

Thus, he finds himself pressing a kiss to the top of Victor’s toe, where the nail plate met cuticle, before poking his tongue out to lick at the skin; tracing along the curved cuticle before moving along the nail plate, to the front of the toe, and underneath it.

He hadn’t quite been right about the lack of care. As close as he is now to the boy’s foot, he smells the faint scent of lotion mixed with the distinctive smell of lint and sweat. It’s a fruity sort of scent from what he can discern, green apple maybe, and most likely something that had been packed for him by his mother.

He presses another kiss to the bottom of the toe before trailing his tongue to the ball of the foot and wetting the skin with saliva.

There’s a certain thrill he feels when Victor’s toes curl slightly in his hand, and it’s only doubled when he glances upward and sees him panting, soft huffs of air slipping from his pink lips, and the slight bulge in his briefs.

The soda is seeping further into his pants now, uncomfortably sticky, but he doesn’t mind it all too much, not as long as he could coax another reaction from Victor. Besides, he could always call up a fresh set of clothes later. Perhaps it’s a bit of a menial sort of thing to use his authority for, but he’s fairly certain that his employees have gotten weirder requests before from Rose.

Bringing his other hand up behind Victor’s heel, he pinches the thin skin between his nails, pulling lightly, before nipping at the side of his foot with his teeth. Neither movement is enough to cause any serious harm, but it’s enough to elicit a small squeak from Victor.

It’s something at the very least, another reaction, but not quite what he wants.

Another quick nip with his teeth before he trails his tongue back to the sole of the foot, to the ball again before moving to the bottom of the heel. It’s not particularly difficult to cover the sole in spit—Victor’s foot is small after all—but he’s thorough about it.

He grazes his teeth along the sole before moving back to the toes.

It’s not especially difficult to envelop them in his mouth either. The digits are small and wiggle slightly in his mouth—most likely a bit discomforted by the unfamiliar combination of warmth, restraint, and wetness. With each movement, the nails scrape slightly against his tongue, the sides of his cheeks, and the roof of his mouth.

He pushes his tongue between the first toe and second toe, provoking another wiggle and a slight shudder from Victor, before sliding his tongue to between the second and third and then to between the third and fourth. When he reaches the little toe, he releases Victor’s toes from his mouth before promptly drawing it, the smallest digit, back into his mouth.

Another shudder from Victor as he begins sucking on the toe, tongue swirling around the digit, and another pang of satisfaction for himself.

Shifting his gaze slightly upward, he sees how Victor’s hands clench at his shirt, nails digging into and fingers pulling at the fabric in an attempt to keep quiet, and how the boy’s lips part slightly, breath frenzied.

Good. It’s still not the reaction he wants, but it’s close.

He doesn’t want Victor to be still—impartial and dismissive and overly calm, more akin to a some long-forgotten statue or callous deity rather than as a human being.

Eventually, he releases Victor’s little toe from his mouth and begins trailing kisses upon the top of foot. He starts with the tip of the toe—tongue flicking between the slight opening between the nail plate and the nail bed—before moving onto the nail itself and then to the flesh of the foot and finally to the jut of the ankle.

There, upon the protruding bone, he bites, sucking at and bruising skin. This time, Victor’s noisy, a mix of pain and excitement, and he feels another stir in his stomach.

It’s a perfectly circular mark when he finishes and begins moving upward along the pale calf and to the inner thigh—trailing saliva with his tongue and blemishes upon the white skin, blotches of dull reds, darkening blues, and heady purples and alternating between the left leg and the right.

When he reaches the inner thighs to the hem of Victor’s briefs, he pauses, admiring his work. In his personal opinion, his legs look better as they are now—splotchy rather than pristine. It would be a bit of a pain to walk later on—bruises rubbing against denim—but he doesn’t think Victor would mind all too much, not with the way he looks at him now.

It’s still not quite what he wants—wholly undivided attention and wantonness—but it’s better than the apathy of their previous meetings.

He doesn’t want to see that particular gaze ever again.

His palms are wet from spit, and the fabric of his pants are soaked when he stands before walking behind his desk and pulling the top drawer open. It doesn’t take him to find what he wants—a small bottle of lube and foil packet—nor does it take him long to return to his spot in front of Victor, standing instead of kneeling.

He doesn’t expect much change, much deviation from the routine, but it happens anyway. Really, it’s something he should have anticipated. It is Victor after all.

He never quite sticks to expectations.

When he reaches his hand downward to pull Victor’s briefs off, he feels a small hand grasp around his wrist, pale fingers barely encircling.

Victor’s voice is the soft sort—tinny as a bird’s and a bit high in pitch because of youth. Though, he couldn’t say it is an unpleasant sound, just overly soft and a bit uneven from disuse.

But still, his request stills him anyway. It is the simple kind, a bit vague at first hearing, but he understands the implications well enough what with the way Victor glances at the bottle and then at him.

“Can I try?”

It’s a simple three-word question, but it stops him. There’s that familiar tilt of the head again, entirely abhorrent, but it isn’t quite the same as the other times. Instead, he sees the faint flush of his cheeks, the inquisitiveness of the eyes—peering and childlike in its curiosity—and the slight shake of the chin and lips, embarrassment.

It isn’t quite the same dispassionate stare.

“Please, Leon?”

It’s another question, earnest instead of dispassionate, and then his name.

That’s right. He isn’t king. He’s human once more.

He’s not particularly inclined to submitting—even in his other risqué engagements, he isn’t one to take a submissive role—but he isn’t king anymore.

Victor is.

“Okay.”

It’s an awkward sort of entanglement he finds himself in afterwards—pants and undergarments pulled down to his ankles, rear upon his desk and legs spread, and his own fingers, lubed and cool, preparing and spreading himself. He doesn’t particularly trust Victor to do it. He’s not particularly large for obvious reasons, but discomfort is discomfort no matter how miniscule.

He feels the burn of embarrassment—the feeling of lube and fingers is a rather foreign one for him—and he’s rather certain the color of his face reflects it, but still, he has Victor’s attention on him, gaze intent and hot.

There is a certain thrill, scandalous and scathing, and he isn’t quite sure who that particular statement describes—he himself or Victor once more.

“I’m ready,” he says, finishing and placing his hands onto the desk. His response is an even sort of thing, more fit for describing a simple Sunday outing than their current activities, but still, he sees Victor move, hopping carefully from his chair to avoid the spill and slipping.

There’s a certain awkwardness to his gait—pale legs marked, colors imposing—before he stops in front of him. Victor’s hands tremble lightly even as his fingers clench at the hem of his shirt.

However, he doesn’t mind all too much. Much like all of the other instances so far, he prefers it, prefers it—nervousness and flawed kinghood—to dispassion and silence.

There is a certain authority in it—less messy.

He reaches forward, careful to balance himself, and hooks a finger into Victor’s briefs before pulling down and exposing a small, hard cock—pale and hairless.

“Try pushing forward,” he says. “It’ll be fine.”

A nod then, and with that Victor does, pushing forward with hands placed on the desk and entrapping his waist.

Victor’s inexperienced, not particularly good—he prefers that over the alternative, over unnatural ability—but still, he finds some enjoyment in it. Rather, it’s an understatement.

He’s rather thrilled at the awkwardness, the way Victor thrusts, irregular and without an ounce of understanding for teasing or coyness, and the noise he produces—huffy, light yet loud, and entirely less than a king should be.

Vulgar. It is absolutely vulgar, another bacterization of the story—knight and beasts and kings—yet it isn’t, not quite.

Victor, when he cums—messy and warm—at least understands courtesy. He doesn’t still entirely. Instead, he wraps his hands—they’re small, slender much like his feet and unable to wrap entirely around the length of his cock—and pulls, tugging.

Similar to his thrusts, it’s an awkward motion—nails digging slightly into the sensitive skin and movement too hurried or too slow—but still, it’s enough, not in skill but in primality and in the way Victor looks at him, and he finds himself releasing into Victor’s hands, dirtying the palms and digits like the boy's legs.

When Victor pulls out, he finds himself lifting the boy, hands underneath armpits, onto the desk with him. It’s not a particularly difficult task considering Victor’s weight, but still, it’s an odd sort of motion for him. He’s not quite sure why he does it or why Victor wraps his arms around his waist and mumbles his name under his breath, fatigue setting in.

He’s not quite sure why he ends up pressing a kiss to Victor’s forehead either.

How strange.

But nonetheless, he is, at the very least, rather certain of a few things. Namely, the fact that they both need a change of clothes and that his desk needs to be replaced and the floor cleaned.

It is a messy sort of endeavor, but still, it is nowhere near as messy as what he feels now.

But nonetheless, he could always work through that later.

That is how the stories are supposed to go, happy endings and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...Leon gets to bottom for both symbolism reasons and for personal author appeal. I just don't get to write Victor as a top often with how my works usually go. I also went against my normal Victor characterization, though it's no less complex imo. It's just that my normal Victor's issues are heavily tied into sexuality while this one isn't. This Victor's a bit more based on the idea of the Luciferian figure among other things. That and he's probably more "precocious" in the sense that's been digging around the internet.
> 
> You'll also notice that Leon's name appears only once in this fic, and it's uttered by Victor. There's stuff, symbolism and motifs and all that, layered in the porn I assure.
> 
> Also I don't think it's too "coincidental" that Leon keeps lube in his work desk considering how much "control" plays in this. He seems like he'd be prepared for almost anything. I also wouldn't take everything Leon says word for word as well. He can be a bit unreliable in this. He's not exactly talking about a "physical" messiness necessarily.
> 
> Themes: Fairy Tales, Narrative Structure, Perception, Names, Religion, Divine Right of Kings, Control
> 
> Cut Scenes and Ideas: High Heels and shoe/foot worship, more explicit humiliation and masochism, socks, more explicit obsession
> 
> I honestly didn't get to be as "weird" with the porn as I wanted to be which is disappointing.
> 
> Here, Leon also takes the "place" of all four traditional figures of the fairy tale: king, "princess," dragon, and knight. The style is also rather reflective of his mental state at times. He's not crazy imo, just a bit off at times. Victor takes a role of a fairy tale figure as well, but his is a bit different.
> 
> I also went with some themes of "masculinity" and "femininity," but I went with a more "classics/fairy tale" approach to it hence why it's not geared towards "modern" sensibilities really. I think it's also rather funny how Piers got a Greek Mythology and melancholic fic while Leon got "Christian Themes but blasphemous." It's the week after Easter and all.


End file.
